Page 55 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter fifty-five

The Finalists

Fern awoke without knowing what time it was, where she was or when she had even sunk into unconsciousness. She sat up with difficulty and found herself looking at midnight-blue upholstery, arched windows and narrow bookcases.

She was lying on a couch in the solarium of the Mage Tower.

Outside the windows, night had fallen. The storm from the previous night had left a peaceful, windless silence in its wake; Fern couldn’t even hear the rush of the ocean. All she could hear was the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

She tried to wipe her tired eyes and found her hands covered in bandages up to the elbows. Her memories rushed back in a flood: running back to Carthane, the pit, the fight between Edmund and Srivastav, channelling the fire, Lautric’s dagger at Srivastav’s neck, the Grand Archivists arriving, finally, to set things right.

Only, nothing felt right. Nothing was right .

Josefa was gone, killed by Emmeline, whom Fern had tried to save. It did not matter: both of them were beyond saving now. Edmund was dead or grievously injured. Srivastav was gone, taken into custody by the Grand Archivists, who would, in turn, inevitably surrender him to the Reformed Vatican.

His family would probably remain in the clutches of his Emperor. Fern could only hope Srivastav’s desperate actions would be enough to convince his Emperor he had done everything he could to succeed.

There was no justice to any of it. Only death and wasted lives. And, for every question answered, there was another unanswered question. What had happened to Vittoria? She, too, was gone, but Srivastav had never mentioned her. Who had been in the Arboretum that night? Who had created the Gateway in the Astronomy Tower?

And, with everything that had happened, why had the Grand Archivists not interfered earlier?

They’d lied and claimed Josefa had left. Why? To protect the candidates, or themselves? Did they not care what was happening within the hallowed halls of Carthane, so long as its reputation, or theirs, remained intact?

And finally, there was Lautric, always. Lautric, whose family had threatened the missing Professor Saffyn. Lautric, who had made a deal with Vittoria and allied himself with the murderous alchemists. And if Lautric wasn’t the saboteur all along, then where was he going in the nights?

And how much of what he said and did was the truth, and how much was a lie ?

Fern was exhausted and could not bear to think about it, could not bear to think about anything at all. She gazed around the room and saw Dr Essouadi, half-asleep in an armchair, no doubt exhausted from helping Fern and Lautric with their burns.

Fern remembered only glimpses of what had happened after they left the undercroft, but she remembered the warmth of Dr Essouadi’s voice when she recited her healing incantations, how soothing her magic had felt. She must have passed out then.

Fern stood wearily and went over to Dr Essouadi. The older woman had closed her eyes, and her head was resting against a cushion propped against the back of her chair. Her chest rose and fell a little too fast, and there was a flush in her cheeks, as though a fever simmered deep within her. Fern placed her hand on the older woman’s shoulder, and Dr Essouadi sat up with a start.

“Ah, Miss Sullivan. Are you alright? How are your arms?”

“Good, thank you. Thank you so much. Are you alright, Doctor?”

“Yes… yes.” Dr Essouadi nodded, but her eyes were wet, and her lips trembled. “Ravi wouldn’t have done any of it if he had any other choice.”

“I know,” said Fern, a lump in her throat. “Perhaps they’ll take it into consideration, when they bring him to justice, perhaps—”

“Justice?” Dr Essouadi shook her head. “The Reformed Vatican wouldn’t know justice if God himself descended from the heavens to teach it. If the Library give Ravi to the church, the church will devour him. ”

“And if they surrendered him back to his Emperor?” Fern asked.

Dr Essouadi met Fern’s gaze. Both women were silent.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Fern said eventually. “And about your health. I never knew you were unwell.”

“Death is the one enemy we can never outrun,” Dr Essouadi said with a wry smile. “I’ve been running a long time, Miss Sullivan, and I’ll keep running until I’m caught. I ran all the way here, hoping Carthane would hold the answers I seek.”

“You might find them yet,” said Fern.

Dr Essouadi nodded, but her eyes became hazy and faraway, and she spoke almost too quietly for Fern to hear.

“Or I might find something else altogether.”

And Fern remembered, for the first time since she’d been pushed into the pit, the Astronomy Tower and what she had found there.

Fern was summoned the following day to Professor Farouk’s office. She’d slept fitfully, Inkwell plastered steadfastly to her side, and only with the help of the medication Dr Moad had given her. She awoke to a letter of convocation and felt almost nothing at all. She had missed the third assignment, and she hadn’t even managed to save Emmeline. Mistake after mistake—and now it was time to face the consequences of those mistakes .

She entered Professor Farouk’s office with a sense of finality.

She was somehow surprised to find that the Grand Archivist’s office was a wide chamber full of daylight and fresh air. Tapestries hung from the walls, their edges flapping in the cold breeze drifting from the open windows. Glass cabinets of astronomical equipment flanked a wide fireplace above which stood a large painting of Copernicus gazing at a sky full of stars.

Professor Farouk, in a blouse of white silk, sat at her desk sipping a cup of tea. She looked up when Fern entered and pointed to a small felt couch across from her desk.

“Sit, Miss Sullivan, please.”

She took a small porcelain teacup from a silver tray behind her desk and poured Fern a cup of tea, which Fern took with some gratitude. She had awoken with a sore throat and a pounding headache, and even though the pain in her arms had abated thanks to Dr Essouadi’s help, she was aching all over.

“It’s been a difficult last few days, Miss Sullivan,” Professor Farouk said. “And you’ve been through a lot. How are you coping?”

“Fine,” said Fern. “I feel alright. Thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Farouk. “I understand the choices you made, Miss Sullivan. They say a lot about you, and I admire you for having the strength to make such choices. I hoped I would be in a position to give you your grade for the third assignment, but of course, you missed it.”

“I know,” said Fern, though she did not apologise .

She did not regret her decision, no matter how pointless it had been.

“Fortunately,” said Professor Farouk, “my peers and I were lucky enough to arrive in the Carthane underground just as you were in the midst of your channelling spell. We were all impressed by your performance, deadly and desperate as it may have been. We all assumed you had notes and research prepared?”

“Of course,” said Fern, thinking of all that work, wasted.

“We would very much like to see this research of yours, regardless of the third assignment being concluded.”

“Of course,” said Fern. “I don’t expect any favours.”

“No, indeed, and you shall receive none.” Professor Farouk’s tone was firm. “We consider all our choices with great care, Miss Sullivan. We have no choice, you have seen for yourself the lengths some are willing to go to in order to secure a position in Carthane. Safekeeping the Library is our life’s work. Every decision we make is calculated to serve the Library. We make our choices on the grounds of sound academic work, for we are librarians. But above all, we serve Carthane, and in turn, we expect our candidates to do the same.”

Fern braced herself. She could see where this was going, and she almost resented Farouk for being so careful with it. It was better to deal the blow quickly and let the dreading of it end quickly.

But, “Congratulations, Miss Sullivan,” said Farouk. “For excellent work in the assignments thus far, for peerless academic work and research, and for risking your very life to protect Carthane and those within it, you have been selected as a finalist for the position of Grand Archivist at Carthane.”

Fern’s heart was marble in her chest. It seemed to be barely beating. She wasn’t sure what emotion she had been expecting, but she had at least expected some emotion.

Instead, she felt nothing at all.

Was this not what she had worked so hard to achieve? Was she not one step closer to victory? She was getting exactly what she wanted, so why did she feel so hollow?

She gave Professor Farouk a polite smile. She felt utterly drained, impossibly empty.

“Thank you.”

“In light of Professor Saffyn’s continued absence, we have come to the decision that you will be re-assigned a mentor. As you know, the final part of your candidacy will be the preparation and presentation of a thesis. I will be your new mentor and will support you through your thesis.”

Fern had gone without a mentor for so long now that she could barely imagine why she might even need one at all. Nevertheless, she nodded and repeated, “Thank you.” And, because she could no longer hold the question trapped in her chest, she almost blurted out, “What’s going to happen to the general?”

Professor Farouk sighed. Now that Fern sat so close to her, she could see the lines around the Grand Archivist’s eyes and mouth, shaped by past laughter, now creased with regret and sadness.

For the first time, Fern was reminded that Farouk was just as real and human as she was.

“What happened in Carthane was a tragedy, we should never have allowed it to happen. Certain matters have kept our focus away from the candidacy. Of course, we never intended for the candidacy itself to take such a turn, to descend this quickly into chaos and corruption, but it was still our responsibility to oversee that it could not, and we failed to do so. Our oversight in this instance is beyond reprehensible—it is unforgivable. In trying to protect our Library, we have allowed those within it to become endangered, and we bear the culpability of that.”

Professor Farouk paused, shaking her head, seeming to collect herself for a moment before continuing.

“Mr Edmund Ferrow and General Srivastav are both currently in custody and will need to face justice for what they have done. This should have been preventable. Now, of course, our hands are tied.”

Edmund was alive. Srivastav was alive. At least no more deaths had occurred. Fern could only cling to those facts for comfort. There was so little else.

“And Emmeline Ferrow? Is there any chance she might have survived the sewers and washed up ashore as I did?”

“Miss Ferrow and Miss Novak are both rumoured to be dead,” said Farouk, “but neither has been found yet, either dead or alive. In the absence of bodies, we have reported them as missing, and a search of Carthane and its surroundings has been organised. We will not rest until their bodies are found, Miss Sullivan, I assure you.”

Fern’s chest was crowded with emotions and questions, but she could bring herself to ask only one in the end.

“May I ask how many other finalists have been chosen?”

“Of course,” said Farouk, and a shadow briefly crossed her face. “Four of you were selected.”

Fern bit into her bottom lip, hesitated, and said, “Dr Essouadi?”

“Yes. Dr Essouadi, Mr Baudet, and Mr Lautric.”

The marble of Fern’s heart softened, melted away, relief rushing in to replace it. The doctor was still here, and Baudet, whom she had never considered a particularly strong candidate. Three of them, now, standing between Carthane and the Lautric House.

She must not have hidden the secret of her thoughts well because Professor Farouk, fingers wrapped around the rim of her teacup, hesitated, then said, “You need not worry about him , Miss Sullivan. The power of the Lautric House means nothing here.”

But that wasn’t quite true, was it? Because Lautric was a finalist, despite his unimpressive performance in the assignments, despite his family’s probable involvement in Saffyn’s absence.

Whatever plan the Grand Archivists had for the candidates, Fern could not fathom. She could only hope there was a plan.

Fern returned to the Mage Tower with a slight limp. The medicine had worn off a little, and despite Dr Essouadi’s intervention, the pain in her arms was beginning to flare back to life, but Fern was too distracted to dwell on it.

She wasn’t surprised to find out Lautric a finalist; she had expected the influence of his house to get him this far, but she could not shake off her unease, her questions. She could not shake off Farouk’s words, meant as reassurance, and yet leaving only more doubts in their wake.

How much did the Grand Archivists truly know? That was another question worth answering.

If Farouk had told her the truth, if the power of the Lautric House meant nothing in Carthane, then why allow Lautric to get this far? During her collaboration with him for the third task, Fern had not been impressed by his scholarly prowess or the depth of his academic knowledge. Unless he cheated in the other assignments, she doubted his research must have been particularly impressive.

In a way, it worked out in her favour. With so few candidates remaining, Lautric would have a much smaller pool of candidates to wheedle help from or to spy on. Of all the finalists, he was the only one who would be incapable of besting Fern on the strength and merit of his academic work. In a way, with Lautric as a finalist, that only left Baudet and Essouadi for Fern to worry about.

“Fern.”

Fern had entered the Mage Tower to find Léo Lautric, as though summoned by the clamour of his name in her thought, standing in the atrium. His hands in his pockets, and he’d been gazing ruefully at the bust of one of Carthane’s great founders before looking up at Fern.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” he said.

His voice was a little sore, and the bandaging beneath his clothes went all the way up around his neck. Fern thought of the way he had protected her from Srivastav’s fire with his own body, the blade he had held at Srivastav’s throat, and she could not help but think of the time she had caught him looking at Srivastav’s notes.

She said, “Thank you,” and tried to go past him, but he stopped her by her wrist.

“That’s all?” he murmured. “You’re not going to congratulate me? It’s not been easy, Fern, getting this far.”

There was a lump in her throat when she thought of all the candidates who had failed to get to this point. Everyone who had died or been hurt or simply vanished. Everyone who had worked so hard, for so many years, and then harder still once they got to Carthane, all to no avail.

But not him . Not the Lautric scion and his soft, deceitful smile.

“Congratulations, Mr Lautric, on making such good use of your name.”

She did not disguise the bleak displeasure in her tone. She had tried her best to be careful, to temper her distrust with professional courtesy. But too much had happened, and even if Lautric had saved her life, it did not change anything else he had done, or how little Fern believed he deserved to be a finalist.

Lautric’s reaction was muted. His smile was small and melancholy—was it not always so?

“You don’t think I deserve to be here.”

You don’t , she thought, but she said, “I don’t think you’re here for the right reasons.”

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. “Then in that respect, if no other, you and I are of the same mind.”

Fern stepped forward, displeasure giving way to anger. “I came here to become Grand Archivist.”

“You came here, Fern, out of ambition.”

She bristled. “And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all. You think I’m not here for the right reasons; I happen to think the same thing of you, that’s all.”

His words stung Fern more surely than if he had slashed at her face with a handful of nettles. Her entire being revolted, heat blistering underneath her skin, chest tight. She clenched her teeth and hesitated only for a fraction of a moment before sending out a retaliatory retort.

“Perhaps you would be in a position to judge me, Mr Lautric, had you not cheated your way through this candidacy.”

He did not deny it—a blow in itself—but nodded and said, “I did what I had to do to ensure we would both become finalists.”

Fern let out a burst of incredulous laughter from her too-tight chest. “You’re mad if you think you got me even a step further than I got myself.”

“I don’t think I helped you, Fern. I know I did.” Lautric was very close, now, and Fern was no longer sure who had closed the space between them, him or her. All she knew was the limpid brown of his eyes, the slight crook of his lips as he spoke. “By saving you from Srivastav when I needed to, by interceding with Edmund and Emmeline when they were considering you as a threat to dispose of, by keeping your secret when the Sentinels hunted you for using a hermetic spell, by giving you Wild Magic when your own reserves were running low. And yes, I cheated too. I cheated when I put those symbols on your desk during the first assignment, and I would’ve cheated on the second and third assignments if I could have, because I needed to get to this point, and I needed you to do the same.”

For a moment, Fern could not even find enough air within her chest to breathe. When she finally spoke, she could muster only one whispered word.

“Why?”

Lautric reached up with his long fingers, cupping Fern’s chin so delicately his skin barely touched hers, and he spoke low and clear.

“Because, Fern, the truth you’re after, the truth you’ve been after all this time, is that I am here for the right reason. I am willing to do whatever it takes to achieve what I came here to do. And I am so much more than a name .”

His fingers dropped away from Fern’s face. He took her hand in his and pressed something cold in her palm. She looked down, and her heart lurched. Bone hilt inlaid with gold, a sun carved into the pommel, and a slim blade of refined steel.

Oscar’s dagger.

It was the weapon he’d held to Srivastav’s throat. She hadn’t even realised he’d taken it from her .

“I must thank you for lending this to me,” Lautric said. His voice was quiet, now, devoid of emotion. “Best not to part with it again, Fern.”

And then he turned, and left, and Fern stood trembling in the atrium of the Mage Hall, forcing her frantic heart to still itself. She closed her fingers on the pommel of her dagger and squeezed hard.

And she made a vow to herself.

No matter what it took, no matter the cost, she would not rest until she discovered why Lautric was here and what he was trying to do.

And then she would rip him out of Carthane once and for all.

THE END